


A Baleful Howl

by Damdamfino



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Sexual Content, F/M, Getting to know you, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kind-of Slice of Life?, Might as well have a 50ft fuse slow burn, Playlist, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pseudo-Incest, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-11-28 21:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damdamfino/pseuds/Damdamfino
Summary: Sansa and Jon's victory for Winterfell brought with it the responsibility of The North and the survival of it's people. Now they are faced with the questions of who are their enemies, who are their allies, and whether two broken wolves can become a pack. Will they work together to overcome their personal demons and perhaps find solace in their pain or will revenge and duty jeopardize everything?Picks up right after BotB.





	1. Burying the Bodies

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. Finally posting! HUGE thanks to my beta readers, who helped ease my worries over these first few chapters, and helped me bring this outline and plot I've been slaving over for months to reality. They are legit my heroes and deserve every inch of my love and adoration. 
> 
> Each chapter will have a "recomended listening" song to a playlist of the entire Fic. If you want to see some fanarts, musings or answers about the fic, feel free to come visit me over on Tumblr.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

# Chapter One: Burying the Bodies

 

[[Hurt - Johnny Cash]](https://youtu.be/4ahHWROn8M0)

_What have I become_  
_My sweetest friend?_  
_Everyone I know_ _  
_ Goes away in the end

  
_You could have it all_  
_My empire of dirt_  
_I will let you down_ _  
_ I will make you hurt

 

Sansa ran her fingers over the rough wool colored the shade of winter roses. Her fingers traveled to the fox pelt across Rickon's chest, shimmering in the torches’ glow. It wasn't the finest fur he had worn, but it was the best she could have done on short notice.

Rickon had grown so much taller than when she had last seen him. None of his old clothes fit. These robes were pieced together from scraps and old garments she found around the castle. She was determined he was going to be laid to rest in clothes dyed as blue as the ocean and fit for a Lord of Winterfell.

She wanted to cry. There was a familiar tickle on the bridge of her nose, but she had no more tears to shed. She had become exhausted from this familiar feeling. Jon stood across the stone slab from her, eerily quiet. How did it look to him – a sister not shedding a tear for her younger brother? She wanted to show some emotion - any emotion. Sansa ran her hands across Rickon’s cold, hard chest, smoothing the clothing, thankful the blood had stopped leaking to stain the kingly clothes.

It was an agonizing feeling. Just yesterday she had walked through the castle grounds, overjoyed to have won back her home. Now, here in the stone halls of the Stark crypt, she was reminded of how much she had to sacrifice for it. Oh, how weak the Stark line had become.

“I wonder if we'll ever run out of room...” Jon's low voice broke her reflection. He was glancing around the walls of the crypts, anywhere but her. Even with the torchlight, some corners of the crypt stayed so dark you could imagine that the halls were never ending. Yet Sansa understood what he meant.

“How many more of my family am I going to lay here?” Her quiet question answered his rhetorical one.

Her mother's remains had never made it home. Neither had her father's remains, or her other brother’s. Rickon was going to be all alone. Space was not the problem. Arya and Bran were missing - open ended questions to be left for a future date. Perhaps they were already dead and were never to join Rickon in the family crypts. Would it be Jon next? Or possibly herself. She hoped it was a question of _when_ and not _where_. She couldn’t let another wolf be lost from home.

Sansa couldn’t take her eyes off Rickon. He was only a child. He didn't deserve this. She could run the same questions infinitely in her head. Of which she would never receive an answer.

_If only… If I had… We never should have…_

Jon stayed silent. If there was anyone who knew the inevitability of death, it was him. She had seen the way it plagued him.

He picked up a shield that was propped against the stone table. He stared at Rickon's frozen face for a long moment. The young boy was broken and bruised; littered with cuts and blemishes from the hooves of horses and bodies of fallen men. Jon placed the shield over him, the glare of the Direwolf shining forward, and it nearly swallowed Rickon’s small frame. The silence was deafening around them. Rickon looked ready for the next world. Hopefully he would fare better there than he had in this one.

Jon's face darkened the longer he stared at Rickon's dead body, his eyes wilting into pain. The sight was difficult to bear.

“I'm sorry,” Jon’s voice fractured slightly. He spoke so quiet, as if hoping Sansa wouldn't hear. “I failed you.” She glanced up to the brooding man. She couldn't decide if he was speaking to her or Rickon.

“ _This_ was Ramsay,” she stated, a scowl marring her lips as if the name itself tasted bitter. Her body bent over Rickon’s, low enough to be a protective shield over him. “We have our home back. We have each other.” Jon’s eyes fell to her again. “I will always owe you my life. At least know that.”

“I tried-”

“I know you did,” Sansa interjected before he could finish. “Just as I tried to save Father.” Her words echoed in the damp labyrinth. His eyes closed and he took in a deep shaky breath.

This was their lot in life; death, tragedy and pain. They were the only ones left. She had been through this. Had been forced to stare upon her father’s head, to hear the cheers at her brother’s and mother’s death, to walk the ghostly halls of her home. She knew this song. She couldn't let Jon succumb to it.

Letting go of Rickon, she walked around the stone slab to move closer to Jon. He seemed uncomfortable with the display of emotion, but she grabbed his arm anyway, urging him to heed her.

Words abandoned her. She wasn't with a highborn or a noble. This wasn't a social interaction. Courtesy be damned. This was the first time she was allowed to _grieve_. Perhaps it was the same for Jon, too.

“I owe you my life,” she whispered finally. “We can’t change what's done. _Please…”_ Her plea was left to linger in the air. Jon couldn’t look her in the eye, but he wrapped an arm around her neck, pulled her close and placed a soft kiss to her forehead.

Hopefully this would be the last sibling they would lay to rest together. At least until either one of them joined their family.

\--

Jon and Sansa walked side by side, past the glass garden and the kennels. They strolled through the courtyard, now a ghost of their childhood. Chaos surrounded them in the form of fallen roofs and piled bodies. It was a familiar sight to Sansa, from when she was first brought back to Winterfell, but Jon regarded the state of the fortress in quiet shock.

A group of wildlings across the courtyard were talking loudly and gruffly, aggressively fighting over objects Sansa couldn't identify. She couldn't help but think of how her father would protest, and how her mother would object. Never would Father have allowed Wildlings inside the safe walls of Winterfell.

“Do they have to stay inside the walls?” Sansa asked with a taste of disdain.

They were clustered in packs, like wild animals, not unlike a pack of wolves fighting over a dead carcass. This was not the place, nor the time. Decorum from the Wildlings was a futile expectation, Sansa had learned.

Jon glanced to where she was referring, then gave a heavy sigh. “Sansa…” he began to chide.

Sansa looked to Jon, at a loss for words. He tried to ignore her - but her upbringing would not allow the subject be dismissed.

“But inside?” she asked.

“Where else would they go?” he countered. Her nose crinkled, and she shook her head slightly.

“Just...what would Father say?”

“Father isn't here. He doesn't know them,” Jon replied. Jon retreated into himself for a moment, biting his tongue on words he wanted to say. “They’re people, just like you and I. People who helped us fight.”

Sansa silently accepted the scolding. Yes, they had helped them, even when Northern Men had cowered away. She couldn't fault them for that.

Sansa saw the work to be done all around them. Everything of their childhood was gone – taken by flame. The old books in the library, the ancient ledgers showing their crop storage and the spoils of all the harvests throughout their lifetimes. Winterfell was a whisper of it's former glory, but by simply strolling the grounds, Jon and Sansa seemed to breathe new life back into it's very soul.

This was so different to King's Landing, Sansa noticed. Joffrey always had a swarm of people around him like a queen bee in heat. Today, Jon had asked for solitude to grieve his brother, and Sansa had requested that Brienne help the Master at Arms collect the fallen men instead of following her to the crypts. Today was a day to take in their surroundings, to get their bearings, and to mourn.

Walking the grounds Sansa was able to fully scope the damage. Like a true seamstress, she spied what tailoring was needed to make Winterfell her magnificent home once again. She couldn't let it fade and crumble and decay - for her family's sake.

“We need to work together. Winter is here and we are all we have left. You should do what you do best, and I will do my birthright,” Sansa announced, breaking the silence of their stroll. Jon's stride faltered.

“What are you saying?” Jon questioned, cautiously.

“We need to work together to survive. I need you to protect The North and it's people,” Sansa answered. _And me,_ the words halted in her throat _._

“Aye,” was all Jon could say. Sansa continued.

“And I need to protect Winterfell.” Not ‘want’, but _need._ This was her birthright and her resolve. _The North Remembers._ She needed to give The North something to believe in again. Something worth remembering.

“We don't have enough food,” she surmised. Jon stared ahead.

“I know.”

“The Boltons hadn't yet replenished the stocks fully.” She didn't want to think of Ramsay's plans for Winterfell’s people once they ran out of food. “If winter is anything like what Father warned...” She trailed off, leaving the obvious unsaid.

Neither one of them knew what winter would truly be like. They were both summer children born just after the last winter had ended. If it was worse than the cold of autumn or even the harsh climate of Castle Black, they knew they were in over their heads. If a fraction of what their father had warned was true, surviving with what they had would be a struggle alone; much less for everyone now in Winterfell.

“There might be some game left in the Wolfswood,” Jon responded. That was a grasp at desperate straws and she knew it. Surely all the game was gone now – they might get rabbits, at best.

“And if there’s not?”

“We have to try,” Jon said, answering the troubled look on Sansa's face. Jon wanted to hope, and she would let him try. They both fell into another hopeless silence.

Sansa worried her gloved hands in front of her. Maybe she had led them into a worse situation than she planned. Had she doomed Winterfell and the Stark name - to _starvation,_ of all things?

Jon wordlessly grabbed one of her busy hands and placed it in the crook of his elbow, stealing it from its worry. The motion pulled her closer to him and they now walked in tandem.

“Don't worry, I will ensure we don’t starve.” His voice was low, the false confidence barely veiled.

“That's not what I want,” she snapped. Jon stopped mid-step and turned, studying her, confused. He was never a man of many words and had developed a talent of speaking without uttering a single word. She could feel his shock at her outburst burning through her. _We mustn't fight amongst ourselves..._

She took a calming breath. Today was not the day to fight. “I want to help. I want to do something. I don't want to just sit around waiting. This is our home and-”

She was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Tormund. He had stopped uncomfortably close to them and stared at them wide-eyed -  an unspoken question hanging from his open mouth. Jon seemed upset at the interruption and raised an eyebrow. Tormund’s eyes flicked quickly between the two, and Sansa was suddenly astutely aware how close she and Jon were standing. Sansa clicked her mouth shut and reluctantly conceded the air.

Tormund appeared to care only slightly that he had interrupted a serious moment.

“What's this?” he asked, holding up an elaborate candlestick, bearing twisted vines that curled down, concealing his hands.

She recognized the candlestick as one that once resided in her parents’ room. Perhaps Roose had moved it to an inconspicuous place - trying to hide every part of her family while ravaging her home. Seeing it in Tormund’s dirty, blood-stained hand stirred numerous emotions in Sansa’s chest.

An exasperated sigh escaped Jon’s throat. He unlaced their arms and reached out to grab the object. “It's a candlestick,” he answered.

“Ah,” Tormund grunted. “I thought it might be some fancy highborn shovel.” He shrugged so nonchalantly. “We don’ know where to burn the bodies. Some of them were ‘bout to light the fire right by the fuckin’ shitters.”

A squeak escaped Sansa’s mouth as Jon struggled to answer. His face filled with urgency - an urgency he lacked when talking about the food stocks needed to survive winter. He glanced at Sansa, panicked, and she understood. They were done talking.

She collected the candlestick from Jon's hands.

“I'll take my leave.” _Please don't let them burn down the castle,_ she pleaded with her eyes. He bowed his head slightly- an old habit perhaps now that he was higher than her on the social ladder- and she turned to leave.

\--

Sansa had gone and gathered Brienne, letting Podrick stay to help with the bodies. There were so many bodies. Still clutching the candlestick against her chest, Brienne and Sansa retreated into the castle halls.

They were alone - every able-bodied man was outside helping make sense of the chaos. Sansa would have been glad to help, to do something, were she strong enough, but feared she would only be in the way. _Let Jon handle it_ , she thought. She would help in other ways.

Not every torch had been lit, and the halls were darker than they ought to be. Brienne's heavy, clanging footsteps echoed behind her as they made their way closer to the Lord's Chambers.

She had walked these halls a hundred times in her life - she knew them like the back of her hand. She could have navigated them in pitch black if she needed to. It felt different now. She wasn't going to see Mother’s and Father's face when she reached her destination. These halls now carried different memories, memories more recently resembling nightmares.

They came upon a door and Sansa stopped in her tracks. It was her childhood sleeping chambers. Arya’s were next door, and Bran’s next door still. They would often sneak into each other’s rooms at night when they were too excited to sleep. Arya had barged into Sansa’s room the night before they left for King’s Landing, full of wonder about what they might see and do. That night felt a lifetime ago now.

This room had been ruined for her. It was where Ramsay had decided to lock her in during the day, and where he would brutally ravage her at night. The sanctuary of her innocence, defiled and destroyed at the hands of a madman. Her bones ached with rage. He had destroyed parts of her she would never get back. Even in his death, his memory still haunted these halls.

“Are you alright, Lady Sansa?” Brienne broke the silence.

“I want this room nailed shut,” Sansa answered, her voice dripping with ice. She didn't care if that left Winterfell one less room. Maybe by locking it she could keep the demons inside, instead of roaming the halls of Winterfell.

Brienne stayed silent, and they continued walking.

Mother and Father's room was further still, lying at the top of the tower. Sansa and Brienne made small talk, a welcome distraction, but they hadn't heard the warning of footsteps ahead.

“My Lady Sansa,” Lord Baelish’s voice slithered from the darkness. “I pray you are well.” Brienne grasped the hilt of her sword tightly behind Sansa, but didn’t speak.

“Thank you, Lord Baelish,” she managed calmly. His surprise appearance had shocked her, and his voice sent her heart pounding. “Having just buried my younger brother, I fear _‘well’_ is not the word I would choose.”

“I beg your pardon.” Petyr lowered his head, his full profile now clearly visible in the torchlight. “We are all mourning the loss. Such a young life taken so soon.” Sansa didn't reply. _What did he want? He always wanted something._

“May I ask what you’re doing here?” she asked and Petyr’s face flashed an indistinguishable expression. She tried to inspect him; to watch for any subtleties he might give off. If Sansa gained anything from her time with Littlefinger, it was the skill of observation.

“I was actually looking for you, My Lady,” he replied. “I wish to discuss the matter of my stay here in Winterfell.”

A sense of dread washed over her. She hoped he would leave - leave her alone to her castle - but of course he was staying. His newfound fealty to House Stark allowed him to sit in the Lord’s meetings, which he would no doubt take advantage of. A fact for which she only had herself to blame. She owed him a debt for coming to her aide. A debt he recognized very well.

“In the chamber halls?” Brienne asked, her voice dripping with contempt.

“Of course,” Sansa reluctantly answered, sweeping over Brienne’s hostility. She admired Brienne’s transparency, but feared it might anger the snake. Sansa hugged the candlestick closer to her body. “But perhaps that might be a better question for Jon.”

“Aye,” he growled lowly. “The King.” He was expecting a certain reaction from her at those words. _Jealousy? Bitterness? Anger?_ She kept her face empty.

“Yes. Though I am retiring for the day in mourning. You may tell Jon I've requested a Guest Hall Chamber prepared for you. I pray you find it to your liking amongst all of this bedlam.”

Petyr smirked, his eyes boring into hers knowingly. She could imagine that perhaps in another life, in another time, Littlefinger would be considered handsome. Right now, standing here in the halls of Winterfell, he only provoked an uneasiness within her.

“Thank you, My Lady,” he bowed again. “I shall leave our conversation for another time, perchance.” As he rose back up his eyes hesitated at Brienne's imposing form. _He thinks I'm not speaking because she's here_ , Sansa realized. She knew she was going to have to mentally brace herself for the inevitable conversation to come.

“Lord Baelish.” Sansa offered her hand in farewell and caught his eye. She feigned a small smile that he returned heartedly. He bowed low to place a kiss on her hand, lingering too long to be anything other than indecent.

\--

Once inside the Lord's Chambers, Sansa placed the charred candlestick on the table by her parent’s old bed. The room was freshly prepared, just as Jon said, with copious furs and a lit fire.

The room conjured countless memories as she regarded her surroundings. She never thought the grandeur of her parent’s room would ever have been called her own. She had dreamt of sleeping in the King’s Chambers in King’s Landing, but now recognized those were silly dreams of a stupid girl.

Her parent’s room had a certain warmth to it, despite the snow laden ground outside. But the absence of her parents was loudest here. They were gone. They were never coming back.

Sansa looked around the room; the fire crackled yet she felt no warmth in her bones. Suddenly, like crashing waves, the tears came. The tears that had betrayed her by their absence in the crypts came pouring from her eyes. She tried to choke back the sobs, but her emotions overtook her body. All she could do was let the emotions take hold.

Brienne rushed forward to help, but found herself useless. “Lady Sansa?” she asked apprehensively. “Are you alright?”

Sansa’s hands trembled as she brought them to cover her shame. She had struggled to hold back her emotions for weeks, desperate to stay strong; for those around her, for Winterfell, and for Jon. There was some comfort in knowing she was breaking here in her chambers, with only Brienne to see. She was crumbling to pieces and powerless to stop it.

She was alone in her pain. She knew if she came apart in front of the others that they would discredit her - cast her away. The only way The Lords would listen to her was if she didn't appear as the girl she once was.  Emanating strength with all the threats around them seemed too much to handle at this moment.

“Can I do anything for you, My Lady?” Brienne kept her inquiry to a low whisper. Sansa mutely shook her head, struggling to compose herself.

“No,” she answered softly. “Just… don’t leave.” She hoped she wouldn't frighten Brienne into running. She couldn't stomach the thought of being left in the room alone - especially with the halls left so unguarded. Her mind flashed to possibilities of an unlocked door, or a dark corner...

By definition, the Lord’s Chambers were the safest in the Keep, which was why she found it hard to refuse Jon’s offer. Even with that small comfort, deep down she knew that the demons always came where they were least expected. Bad things happen when one let their guard down.

With Brienne's presence Sansa felt somewhat relieved. She trusted Brienne - with her life - and knew that Brienne was probably the most honorable person left in Westeros. Her home felt foreign and filled with strangers, but she knew she had people to trust inside its walls. Even if Sansa failed at rebuilding Winterfell to its former glory, at least it claimed the two best swordsmen and the two most honorable people in the Seven Kingdoms. With them, it might fare a chance if she were to fail.

Sansa managed to compose herself after her tears were spent, and realized something was missing.

“Brienne...” she started, spinning around to face the door. “There’s no place for you.”

Since Sansa had escaped Ramsay, Brienne had been there by her side. At Castle Black, Sansa and Brienne had shared a room. During their travels down from The Wall, Brienne had slept in Sansa’s tent. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them - wherever Sansa slept, so did Brienne.

“I can find another room, My Lady, if you so wish.”

“No!” Sansa snapped. “I…” Her mind reeled with anxiety she struggled to control. The thought of sleeping alone, unguarded, was too much to bear. The tears threatened to erupt again.

Brienne stood taller, if that were even possible, and hitched her sword closer to her side. “Lady Sansa, I will protect you morning, noon and night - whatever you require.”

The tears returned, but not as a sign of sadness. Her gratitude overwhelmed her. She was too ashamed to say the words out loud, too embarrassed to let anyone else know. Thankfully, Brienne understood.

Sansa moved over to the fur-covered bed and relaxed onto it. Wiping the wetness from her cheeks, a sad small smile bloomed.

“I used to dream of Knights like in song,” Sansa suddenly spoke, her hands smoothing the furs on the bed. “I never imagined that a woman would eclipse them all.”

Brienne’s eyes became glossy, and a small smile lit up her face. She inclined her head. “Thank you, My Lady.” Sansa stared off through the window, and Brienne drowned in her own reverie.

\--


	2. The Absence of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans and promises are made. Secrets kept.

# Chapter Two: The Absence of Dreams

  
[_[Black River Killer - Blitzen Trapper]_](https://youtu.be/q-JcA5pMVYk)

 _You make no mistake_  
_I know just what it takes_  
_To pull a man's soul back from heaven's gates_  
_I've been wandering in the dark about as long as sin_  
_But they say it's never too late to start again_

 _Oh when, oh when_  
_Will the spirit come a-calling for my soul again_

 

  
Jon didn't think he belonged here. Or, at the least, he was sure that he had taken the wrong chair. Even with Ser Davos’ encouragement, a small nod of his head after Jon checked and rechecked the seating more than once, surely this couldn't be right. It had to be a dream, a terrible and bewildering one, with him sat at the head of the table and all the Lords of the North around him, looking to him for leadership. With every word, every well-meant advisement and regal greeting, Jon increasing felt trapped, like a direwolf in an iron cage.

Men often talked about fate. They would say their entire lives had led them to a specific moment. Jon wished he could say the same. He wished that he felt like his entire life had led him to be sitting here as King in the North in Winterfell. But it had not. His life had specifically told him this _wasn't_ meant for him. This was meant for Robb...or even Bran. He was just a bastard. A dead bastard who found himself longing for the darkness again on sleepless nights. No, he didn't belong here.

Except the rough faces of the men at the table believed otherwise.

Sansa poked a boney finger into Jon’s thigh under the table, jerking him out of his silence.

“House Hornwood, Lord Maize, Lady Mormont, Lord Baelish - our gratitude is yours,” Jon spoke. “You are valued allies to Winterfell. I can never repay you for your loyalty.”

“Your Grace, House Hornwood only wants justice to rule in The North. You avenged our Lady Hornwood’s death. House Hornwood is loyal to you until our dying day.” Castellan Larence Hornwood - a Snow just like Jon - had a soft voice, but each word he spoke sounded firm and rehearsed. He was tall and skinny in stature. Jon wondered if he had ever imagined himself as a bastard in a council meeting in his youth.

“Bear Island does not break a promise,” young Lady Lyanna spoke, with her Maester sitting silent by her side. Her small frame was comically overshadowed by the grown men around her, but Jon was glad the strength of her presence was here. She reminded him of Arya - face full of stubbornness and pride. What a trait to behold. “We will stand behind the Starks until our last day.”

“We only ask for a true and independant North, Your Grace. Winter is here - and those southern idiots know nothing of snow.” Lord Maize was a broad man, with a beard as bright as fire. He had lost two hundred men in the fighting.

The other Lords remained silent as each house spoke. Lord Glover cast a wary glance at Sansa, seated directly to Jon’s left. Sansa held her back straight, her hands laced in front of her.

“I am grateful to have your houses by my side,” Jon replied once the vows of allegiance had ended. “Good men died. Let's not have their death be in vain.”

“Then why burn the bodies, Your Grace?” Lord Maize spoke up. “At least let us take them home to be buried next to their kin.”

“My deepest regrets, Lord Maize. When the true storm comes, we don't want a thousand more men added to the enemy's numbers on our doorstep. I advise all your houses to do the same to your dead from now on.”

“You mean to say they will raise our dead as their army?” Maize asked.

“Aye. That's precisely what I mean. I've seen it myself. So has every free folk here.” The men began to murmur in the room. Some were skeptical, others frightened. “When they come, Cersei Lannister and The South will be the least of our worries.” Jon glanced over to Sansa, but her face was frozen and unreadable. “Which is why we have to prepare. I want all of your men training how to fight this war.”

Some of the Lords looked on in disbelief. White Walkers were things of legend; myths and stories told to scare children. How could Jon convince the entire North - nay, all of Westeros - of their existence?

Maybe the world deserved the Walkers. Maybe Men had turned this world into something more evil and vile than his naive, childhood dreams could have ever imagined. There was no such thing as good vs evil, as he had once believed. Every man thought they were good in their motives. He was tempted to let the Lords laugh. Let them go back to their castles and wait for death. Who was he to say what was right or wrong? True or false?

He had tried that once. He had died for it.

But his father wouldn’t have done that. Even Robb would have chosen to do the right thing over the bitter one. And Sansa… She’d die before letting Winterfell fall. He glanced over at her as she sat silent before he continued.

“In the past, the people of the North came to Winter Town to wait out the winter. I do not plan to break that tradition now. Bring your men here. I will train them. Saying that, I admit that the Boltons left Winterfell in poor condition. Winterfell is in dire need of supplies.”

“As Lord of House Manderly, Your Grace, I pledge any supplies and men Winterfell shall need. We will not fail you again.”

“Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell, My Lord. That is her charge,” Jon replied.

Sansa gave Jon a small glance, seemingly unsure, then turned to speak to the room. “We are short on men and supplies, that's true. I don’t want to make your houses struggle more than is needed, My Lord, but your men and supplies are most welcome. We will make due with the bare minimum.” Her voice was strong, but her hands clenched tighter on themselves as she spoke.

“Lady Sansa speaks honestly, Your Grace,” Ser Davos interjected. “She forgoes a handmaid and the basic necessities that the high ladies of your own house enjoy.”

“A very noble sacrifice,” Lord Manderly conceded. Jon noticed Sansa’s long, unbraided hair that fell down either side of her face and knew Sansa was without help, though she had been since she'd come to Castle Black. Jon’s time as Lord Commander Mormont’s steward had taught him how to prepare a fire and clean a boot, but poor Sansa had not needed to learn these things. She was sacrificing so that Winterfell would not have to. Perhaps Brienne would soon learn how to plait. He smiled at the thought.

“We were not there when you asked for our support, My Lady. We will not disappoint you now. I will send a quarter of my supplies to help Winterfell post haste.” Lord Glover stood, and his waist hinged low. His remorse and shame showed on his features.

“Winterfell will be your refuge, Lord Glover,” Sansa replied coolly. “Send your people to Winters Town, send men to train under Jon, and your people will not go hungry or wanting. I promise you that.” Jon was glad this worry was quelled for the time being. House Manderly of White Harbor were known to hoard more food than was needed. With their supplies, Winterfell might not starve for another six months at least.

Jon took the conversation back. “These Walkers fight unlike any man you have seen. Nothing kills them but fire, dragonglass and Valyrian steel. I cannot stress how much we need to prepare.”

“Your Grace,” Larence Snow spoke. The men turned to face him. “Lord Karstark has not been seen since the battle. His body was not found and his horses are gone. Rumor says he fled before the fighting finished .”

The men's whispers swam in his head as Jon tried to think. He didn’t desire vengeance or a cruel death, but Lord Karstark had turned on his family. He was responsible for the death of his brother. Jon’s eyes struggled to focus on the table in front of him, and Sansa unlaced her hands to place them in her lap.

“Your Grace,” Davos began to whisper before Jon lifted a hand to stop him.

“He likely went back to his lands. We must bring him to face the consequences for the death of my brother, Rickon.” Jon looked to Brienne, standing tall along the wall of the room. “Brienne, I know you are more than capable. I trust you can bring him back to face his crimes.”

Brienne’s eyes widened, and she quickly bowed low, holding her sword tight by her side. “Your Grace, I am honored,” The words came tumbling out of her mouth quickly. “...but I serve Lady Sansa.” A few men snickered in the room, and Jon saw Sansa look on, wide-eyed as well. Ser Davos raised an eyebrow and shifted uneasily in place.

“You can go, Brienne,” Sansa said. Jon felt foolish, embarrassed to have put Brienne in the situation. Brienne was right - he had no right to give her orders. But, out of all the men in this room, he knew Brienne was the best woman for the job. He could trust her to not fail. He hoped the other Lords had not seen it as a rash move of an inexperienced boy.

“Your Grace,” Davos broke the awkward silence. “That reminds me of another matter. What to do with Dreadfort? According to the rules of inheritance, it rightfully belongs to Lady Sansa.”

“Burn it,” Sansa said quickly. Jon’s head snapped to face her. She wouldn't meet his eyes. A few of the Lord's angrily broke out into arguments among themselves. Some were already offering it to their own houses. Jon knew her words were spoken with rash impulse, but he would not bring that to light or argue it in front of the others. He needed to act more discerning than that.

“Sansa…” he spoke softly. Maybe kindness could bring her to reason. “Perhaps we can salvage some much needed supplies from it?” Jon pushed. He sat close enough to her that he could see her jaw tighten as she stayed silent.

“I agree, My Lady,” Davos hushed. “At least weigh your decision for some time.”

Sansa inclined her head towards Davos and Jon, keeping her eyes down towards the floor. Tightly, she nodded her head once in acknowledgment. She would think on it.

“We’ll discuss Dreadfort another day,” Jon announced, silencing the petty arguments in the room. “We need to prepare. We don't know what Winter brings, but we will be ready for it. Bring your men here, and I will ensure they are prepared for the long night to come. We’ll meet again.” Jon stood up from his chair to dismiss them from the meeting, his chair legs scraping across the stone floor.

“Jon - if I may,” Sansa spoke up. Jon turned towards her and her bright blue eyes pierced through him. She wanted to speak. Warily he motioned for her to continue.

Sansa slowly stood up from her chair, her height towering over the seated men. No one uttered a sound.

“Lord Glover,” she began, her voice slightly shaking. Lord Glover’s breath caught in his chest, awaiting what words Sansa was so intent on saying. “Do you believe that my father, Lord Eddard Stark, was a traitor?” The Lord's eyes blinked to life, realizing what she was asking.

“No, My Lady.”

“And you, Lord Cerwyn, do you believe that my father, Lord Eddard Stark, was a traitor?”

“No, My Lady. Lord Eddard was a honorable man.”

Jon watched in awe as Sansa went around the room, asking every Lord of The North if they believed the Southern lies about their father. She didn't leave a single house out, and she spoke with such thinly veiled fire that he was surprised the men didn't shield their eyes from it.

Each answer was like a dagger into the rumors and stories spread around Westeros. Jon could only imagine what Sansa had heard and endured while deep in the lion's den of King’s Landing. Her face stayed hard and stern until she asked the last Northern house - House Mormont.

“No, Lady Sansa. Lord Eddard is remembered in Bear Island as a good man,” Lyanna’s small yet firm voice hailed.

“Lord Baelish,” Sansa addressed Petyr, who was seated near the back of the room. He had not said a single word during the council. The men squirmed uncomfortably after she said his name. She paused for a long moment, as she and Petyr locked eyes. Everyone was curious to hear his response. “Do you believe my father was a traitor?” Her eyes narrowed and her chin lifted a little higher. _She’s goading him_ , Jon realized.

Petyr’s eyes seemed to twinkle at her, as a small smile pulled at his lips. He bowed his face, perhaps to hide it. “No, My Lady.”

Jon was surprised Sansa didn’t say anything else or comment on his time in King's Landing during their father's beheading, but she moved on without another word to him. Jon wanted to demand answers, to interrogate Petyr until he cracked under the pressure.

“Believe me now when I say, my father was not a traitor. We will not let our father's memory be defiled and fade. The North will remember.”

The room erupted in a unison cheer.

_THE NORTH REMEMBERS._

“We wouldn't be where we are today if it weren’t for Jon. I will always owe him my life. He is Ned Stark's son. He deserves this honor.”

Jon felt a flood of warmth run through him at Sansa’s words. Now he was sure this was a dream. It didn't make sense - why was Sansa giving him all the credit? It was her actions that saved his life and won Winterfell. He felt even more undeserving at her declaration. He was a fraud sitting in his brother’s chair - seemingly by luck.

“Lady Sansa is being generous…” Jon began quietly.

“My brother is being modest,” Sansa interrupted before Jon could finish. “Ser Davos, please instruct my brother how to accept praise like a King.”

The Lords laughed and cheered. _Hear hear._ Jon’s face flushed with embarrassment. This was real, and Sansa was establishing his claim for all the Lords to see. He regretted the mean things he said to her as a child. Lamented all the hate and animosity he had held in his heart at who she used to be. He didn't deserve her loyalty. Not now.

The Lords finally left the chamber, eager for warm food and ales. Sansa, Davos and Brienne stayed behind with Jon. Once the door was shut, Jon turned to Sansa, a disbelieving question hanging from his lips. He wanted to pull her to him and embrace her. They were the only Starks left. This was really happening.

“Your Grace,” Davos suddenly spoke up. “I do have another idea to help strengthen your cause.”

He seemed unsure about revealing what he was about to say, but decided to continue despite his hesitance. “There's a boy - Robert Baratheon's bastard son. I know it to be true, Stannis met him himself.”

“I thought all of Robert’s bastards were killed?” Sansa asked, a doubtful tone to her words. She seemed hesitant to believe him.

“He escaped, My Lady. The boy has King's blood in him,” Davos assured her. “There might still be some who will support a bastard son over a murderous queen. It might strengthen your allies, Your Grace.”

“Where is he? Why haven't we heard of him before now?” Jon asked.

“Stannis tried to have him killed.” Davos admitted. “I helped him escape the sword but I have not seen or heard from him since. I might be able to find him again.”

“It would scare Cersei, that's for certain. She might act rashly and make a mistake,” Sansa spoke low, close to Jon’s side.

“I do not want the Iron Throne,” Jon stated. “We need to prepare for Winter, the Long Night, and those who come with it. This boy doesn't threaten me here. He can have the Iron Throne for all I care.”

“I'm not saying you do, Your Grace. But maybe we can help him take it.”

Jon sighed loudly, preparing to shut down Ser Davos’ idea.

“If he does take it,” Sansa interjected, “this is someone we will want on our side. Even with an independant North, imagine if we can get help from the South when we do need it.”

Jon watched as Sansa spoke with such surety and wisdom. When had she become so aware in the ways of politics? Her chin dipped as she caught his eyes, emphasizing her point. “It would be better if we had a friend on the Iron Throne, rather than a stranger.”

“Where is he?” Jon asked again.

“I'm not sure, Your Grace. But he and I are alike - I know a thing or two about finding those who don't want to be found.”

Jon didn't want Davos to leave - especially not now when Winterfell needed so much help rebuilding. But he heard the truth in Sansa’s words, and Davos must have a reason for mentioning this now.

“Very well. How soon do you think you can find him?”

“I'm not certain, Your Grace. Within a few weeks, most likely. There must be rumors somewhere west of his travels.”

“If you can't find him within two months, come back. We have more serious matters at our door. We need the entire North prepared for the storm that is coming.” Davos bowed his head in agreement.

Jon turned to both Brienne and Sansa. “Can Ser Davos and I speak privately?”

Sansa's brow knitted together in abject confusion. _There_ was the stubborn Sansa from his childhood. Brienne turned instantly to leave, but Sansa wavered. “Please,” he added. Sansa looked between the two men, but eventually turned to leave as well. He didn't want Sansa to doubt him, but he desperately didn't want her to stay and hear what he needed to say to Ser Davos.

The door shut and Jon felt safe to speak. He looked to this man, who had been an honest and loyal friend to him, and let the wall he was holding up fall.

“I don't want you gone long,” Jon admitted. “I need you here.”

“Aye, I know that,” Davos relaxed down onto a chair, rubbing his tired eyes.

“I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I don't know anything about politics.”

“You'll figure it out, Your Grace. I have faith in you.”

“Don't call me that,” Jon sighed. “I'm no King.”

“And that is why I have faith in you. Don't forget who you are, Jon Snow, it was you who inspired them.” Davos eyes followed Jon as he paced in small steps around the room. His mind was absolutely buzzing. “Some Kings are born, and others are placed. The men see greatness in you. Even your sister, Lady Sansa, she sees greatness in you. Don’t let them down with petty worries.”

“That's why I need you _here_ ,” Jon stressed. “I can't lead this many men on my own.” Davos suddenly stood and grasped Jon's shoulders, halting his pacing. He forced Jon to stare directly into his old, wise eyes.

“The people served Ramsay, albeit reluctantly, after he was legitimized. But he was always a bastard in their eyes. A legitimate, horrible bastard. They will always see you as a bastard, Jon Snow, unless you give them a reason to follow you.” Davos let him go, and stepped back towards the door. “You need to earn love, not demand it. I believe that you can.”

As Davos left the room, Jon stood still, lost in his anxious thoughts. He could not believe Davos’ words. Jon thought he had tried all that before. He had led with his heart, and it had literally killed him. Obviously he was not cut out for this. He inspired treason. He inspired doubt. He couldn't inspire _love_. That naive optimism had died with him. And he feared he could never get it back.

There was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” Jon called, spinning to meet them.

It was Brienne. She was alone.

“Your Grace,” Brienne spoke, bowing deep, warning of her intentions. “I cannot go.”

Jon turned to face her, perplexed by her sudden admission. “Why not?”

“I cannot leave Lady Sansa.”

“Sansa was just here,” he responded. “She knows of my request.” Brienne’s mouth twitched.

“Lady Sansa and I have an agreement, which I believe she was afraid to say in the company of others.” Jon’s mind reeled, curious. What ‘agreement’ could the two women have that Sansa would be ashamed of?

“An agreement?” Jon repeated, his eyebrows raising into his hairline. Brienne’s eyes widened, seeming to realize the phrasing of her words. She glanced to her side, checking to see if anyone else was within ears distance. She moved to shut the door behind her.

“Lady Sansa has been through a lot, Your Grace, as I'm sure you know,” Brienne whispered. “I have been guarding outside her door every night. I don't think she can sleep easily without me.” Jon didn't doubt it. He himself had had trouble with sleep since he had awoken from death’s slumber. “She's too proud to say so, but she does not like being alone in her room.”

“She's safe here, Lady Brienne. No harm will come to her.”

“It is not a _physical harm_ that frightens her, Your Grace.” Guilt crashed over Jon as he finally understood what Brienne was saying. He bit his bottom lip in rage. He had thought that maybe Sansa had managed to recover from what Ramsay had done to her over the last few months. He hadn't realized that the fear was still lingering in her. How could he not have known?

“I'll protect her, Brienne. I need to you bring Lord Karstark back to face justice. I trust only you to do that. You brought my sister back to me, I know you will not fail with this.”

Brienne swallowed hard, her eyes bouncing around as she struggled to collect her thoughts. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” her voice cracked slightly. Was it from fear? Jon couldn't tell. “I must ask you to promise me that you will protect her _yourself_. She trusts you, that I know, and I trust you as well. It's the other men I do not trust.”

Brienne was a stronger person than he. She was willing to speak back to a King to honor her duty. That kind of loyalty and bravery could not be bought. His cold heart warmed at her compassion towards his sister. He reached out, placing his hand on the hilt of her sword, Oathkeeper.

“I swear it, Brienne, by the gods. I will protect her with my life.”

  
\--

  
He knew Sansa had trouble sleeping when she had arrived at the wall. He had seen glimpses of the bruises and bite marks on her arms and legs at Castle Black. What he hadn't known was that Brienne had stood watch outside Sansa's bed every night. That is, until the day Brienne had left to catch a traitor.

That night, he found Sansa in the Great Hall. Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight, but her eyes were dark shadows. She didn't glance up to greet him, only staring blankly at the stone walls. He had to stop and drink in the image - as if it were a dream he didn't want to wake from. He desperately missed dreaming.

“It's so cold in here now,” she mused quietly.

Jon glanced around the empty hall, it's grandeur lacking without any people or light. He had to agree. He missed the familiar music of children laughing and playing. Now, the stone only echoed the distant memories of ghosts. He didn't know what to say to help her.

Sansa continued to stare towards the back wall, refusing to look towards him, clinging the furs to her thin frame tighter. She looked like a whisper of Catelyn's presence. As he was sure he was only a whimper of their fathers.

“Can you not sleep?” he asked, walking through the rows of tables to approach the head table where she sat.

Sansa only shook her head. She kept her eyes distant. Her shoulders shivered lightly in the dim light, sending the furs draped over her shoulders trembling.

“Come on,” he ordered. Sansa reluctantly followed, taking a draining moment to stand and trail behind him.

He led her to the kitchens, still glowing warm from the ever burning fire. There was one woman still there, the cook, who quickly bustled onto her feet when His Grace and Lady Stark entered. Sansa peeked sideways towards Jon, curious as to why they were there. Jon motioned for Sansa to sit at the servants’ table close to the low crackling oven.

He easily found some cold bread and tankards off to the side of the room. He placed the bread and tankard filled with warm liquid in front of her. He asked the cook for some preserves and she hurried from the room.

Jon sat down across from Sansa, watching her closely.

“Eat,” he ordered again. She only stared at the food, as if it were ash in front of her. Jon saw a flash of a prominent collarbone from under her furs. She was wasting away in front of him.

“You need to eat,” he coaxed. She started to shake her head again but he cut her off with a heavy sigh. “Would meat be better? Do you want me to go and fetch you a peacock myself?” She laughed at that. Her light chuckle lingered in the air, a welcome sound to his ears. At least he could still make her laugh. She shook her head once more and finally reached for the bread. She ate in silence for several moments before Jon spoke again. “Sansa, we need to be strong.” He noticed she refused to meet his eyes, but he didn't press the matter.

He desperately wanted to speak of Dreadfort again - to change her mind or at least hear her thoughts. But this was not the time nor place for political discussion - and he was hesitant to bring up Dreadfort and Ramsay. He didn't understand the workings of the female mind, but he knew Ramsay was the reason she had trouble sleeping. Bringing that monster up late at night would be a terrible idea. He didn't want to upset her. Just the opposite - he only wanted to see her smile and forget about her worries.

After her stomach was full with an appropriate amount of bread and warm draught, her mood lightened. She and Jon joked and reminisced about their childhood in hushed voices. They spoke of how lovely the summer was in Winterfell. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. Her eyes danced with every small laugh. He felt triumphant every time. He hated to see her so distressed.

They took their warm tankards back to the halls, and walked in silence, knowing that these walls carried voices all too well. When they were children they could hear the guards speaking of how cold their balls were during the night watch. They didn't want to wake the sleeping members of the keep.

“It's not the same… as when we left.” Sansa broke the silence, a hushed whisper to him. Jon had to agree, but wondered a polite way to answer. There was none.

When they reached the top of the tower, The Lord's Chambers, Sansa opened the door for them both to enter. Jon stepped in and glanced around the gaping room. The last time he had been here, it was to say goodbye to Bran. He had never spent much time in here during his childhood. Not as much as the other children. All the furs and candlelight in the world couldn't have made this room feel welcoming to him then.

“Jon,” Sansa started, shutting the door behind them. He turned and suddenly felt trapped in the old room. Sansa noticed his expression, and made a point of leaving the door unlocked. “I need to say something. Don't let Littlefinger sit in on anymore meetings.” Sansa whispered harshly. “I'm apprehensive of him.”

What could Littlefinger do? Now that he had publicly swore allegiance to House Stark, other action could do him no good. “You think he has foul intentions?” Jon inquired.

“I can't be sure.” She sighed and removed her cloak. She was wearing a dress under it - although a rather thin one. How was she not suffering from frostbite? Jon struggled to avert his gaze. He spun on his heel to walk away from her - to look somewhere else.

“He's Lord Protector for Robin Arryn and The Vale. He can't do much. How would it look, a Lord suddenly turning on his cousin and challenging the very King he helped put there?”

“It would look bad,” she admitted. “But we can’t afford losing his forces, Jon. He’s our best strength and he knows it.”

Jon knew she was right. For a moment he wished that she had never involved him. But he knew Littlefinger was the only reason they had overcome, and the only reason he was sitting as the King and Sansa was safe. All the forces of the entire North would struggle against the Knights of the Vale. She had saved them all, but had put their debt into the hands of someone they couldn't trust.

“What do you think he is going to do?” Jon asked.

Sansa struggled to answer, while her hands worried in front of her. “I don’t know,” she whined. Jon took note of her fidgeting. He grabbed some wood and went to the fire to stoke it. “Littlefinger is unpredictable. But I do know one thing - he will destroy anything and anyone he thinks in his way.”

Jon felt backed into a corner. He stared into the flames of the fire and resisted the urge to dive right into them. Him. She meant Littlefinger would destroy him. He couldn't find a response to her warning.

“Just...don’t involve him in every matter. Keep some secrets, as best you can.” She pleaded to his back. “Let me deal with Littlefinger.”

“I don't want you anywhere near him,” Jon snapped.

“It’s our only chance,” she stated. Jon stood suddenly, angry at her stubbornness.

He spun to face her, ready to chastise her for acting foolishly, but she recoiled. A more eager man would not have seen the rolling of her wrist closer to her chest to avoid an unwanted grasp or the slight tilt of her head to avoid a slap. It was so faint as if it were instinctual - a talent learned over many years.

She seemed to have caught herself off guard as well. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out, a weak and timid plea.

“Don't be,” Jon answered softly. He understood better than others. He silently vowed to never let anyone else touch her again. He watched her grab her cloak from the table and swing it around her shoulders again. The fur brushed against her lips as she dipped her chin into them.

“Brienne told me,” he said. Sansa quickly looked up to meet his eyes. Her chest tightened and he knew instantly that she had stopped breathing. “You're safe here, Sansa. I won't let anything happen to you.”

He heard a sniff from under the door. A low whine pitched from Ghost’s throat and there was a scratch on the wood. “Me and Ghost,” Jon laughed and went to let the direwolf into the room. Sansa did not seem amused.

Jon glanced around the room, searching for a bed or a blanket - any hint of where Brienne would stay. There was a single chair by the door. Did Brienne sleep in a chair all night? At Sansa’s reaction, Jon decided that he probably shouldn't stay inside her room as Brienne might.

“Good night, Sansa.” He bowed his head. He then left The Lord’s Chambers and shut the door behind him.

Jon turned and leaned his back against the wooden door and sighed. So what if some men saw him sleeping on the stone floors in the morning? This was needed tonight. This was more honorable than sleeping in his own chambers. He didn't rest well anyway.  
  
He slid to the floor, letting Longclaw clang onto the stone ground beside him. Ghost spun in a tight circle and laid down next to him, a deep groan escaping as his body collapsed. Jon ruffled the direwolf’s warm fur. He was like a dragon protecting its radiant treasure.

This was a better place for him to be than any. He knew he belonged here.

 


	3. Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts speak louder in the silence. Loyalty is questioned.

# Chapter Three: Wicked

[[A Little Wicked - Valerie Broussard]](https://youtu.be/46rUBCewhxY)

_"A little wicked,"_  
_that's what he calls me_  
_Cause that's what I am_  
_that's what I am_

 _Beware the patient woman_  
_cause this much I know_  
_No one calls you ‘honey’_  
_when you're sitting on a throne_

 

Sansa woke feeling uneasy. Which wasn't unusual - she often woke feeling so. Shortly after her eyes fluttered open she slid her hands down her arms - over her scars. Then she swept her arms under the furs for knives or any hidden surprises. Ramsay had once placed a disembodied rabbit head in her bed just to hear her screams when she found it. It seemed to delight him greatly, and the memory had never left her.

She gathered her surroundings slowly. Ten fingers. Ten toes. She still had her hair and she didn't have any new bruises. Once she finished her routine, she dropped her head back onto the feather pillow. It was too early for the young steward to bring the food to be left untouched on her table. The sun was still faint and had not yet chased the sickly blue hue of night from her chambers. Everything was quiet.

Too restless to sleep, Sansa finally rose from her bed. She went to reignite the fireplace. She placed fresh wood on the dwindling embers and the fire spat and puffed as it died in a gust of black smoke. _Fitting,_ she thought. She even smothered fire.

She tried to brush her hair. In King's Landing and The Vale there were others to do this for her. Handmaids who would brush her hair, help her dress and make idle chat to help her feel comfortable. Growing up, her mother would love to brush her Tully tresses. It was different now.

She liked the quiet. It meant not having to maintain small talk or trying to guess what the other was thinking. If it was only herself, she could nearly cope. Adding others into the equation only tired her. It was taxing to pretend to smile and appear strong for the sake of others.

She could only just tolerate her own company. Petyr had enlightened her with the gift of observation, and she found she had trouble quieting it. She saw every sad wayward glance. Heard every coo and tsk when she felt like breaking. Felt every low groan or intake of breath when she opened her mouth to speak. Somehow the pity made it harder.

When she went to put on her dress she came across the binding stay inside her wardrobe. Without a handmaid, putting it on would be a struggle she could not overcome. Though, a part of her missed the tight laced feeling of slow suffocation.

Not many Northern women wore stays, and she had only worn her first stay once she arrived in King's Landing, much to her father's dismay. She had convinced a Southern handmaid to help her try it on, and she had always wished to wear proper womanly attire. She wanted to braid her hair high like Cersei, to wear a waist-binding stay like Princess Myrcella did. Father had pleaded for her to slow down, to stay a child a little longer. He had warned her… and she had let her childish dreams drown him out. She wished she had stayed a child just a little bit longer.

She stroked the corded bodice before placing it back into its storage. As she slipped her wool dress on and struggled with the laces behind her back, her mind wandered in the absence of noise. In the silence, her thoughts screamed louder.

Petyr’s words from the previous day still taunted her.

_“That was a lovely show. So you have fully chosen your bastard brother?”_

He had cornered her in the stairwell after the council meeting, his lips close enough to her face that she could feel his hot breath on her skin with every low word.

Despite the daylight outside, the corner Petyr had shoved her into was dark and cold. She had looked for Brienne, but she was nowhere to be found.

_“He was crowned as King, Lord Baelish. Not I.”_

_“Do you think the crown can sit on a head of snow for long, my lady? It prefers - it desires - a head of fire, of flaming beauty...”_

Regularly she found herself frozen, staring at a wall or a window or even her own sallow face in the mirror as her mind shouted at her. It would repeat the past over and over, as if it were afraid she would forget.

Being in her parents’ room only made visions of her father's head dance into view. The Southern stay brought memories of how Joffrey had tormented her. The scars on her arms brought a fresh wave of fear through her body, even though she knew perfectly well she was safe - that Ramsay would never hurt her again. But her mind loved torturing her.

What had she done to deserve any of it? She could not find an answer. She feared the memories would not stop plaguing her until she could.

When she opened the door of her bedchamber, she half-expected to find Jon still sleeping on the stone floor. Instead, she found only empty ground. Perhaps she had dreamed last night. At least that would have been a fairer dream than she was used to.

She felt weak and silly, for needing a guard outside of her door. She had survived sleeping in the lion’s den in King’s Landing. She had traveled through forests and shadows. Why was it now that she needed peace of mind? What was it about this place that frightened her so?

At least Brienne understood. At least Brienne did so without question. It was not a request Sansa was eager to ask of Jon, after he had already done so much for her. But it was, as much as she hated to admit it, the only way she was able to sleep in these walls. With strange men in the keep, and new men who had replaced the fallen ones. With Petyr staying in these halls...

Jon hadn't offered, and she hadn't asked. She hoped he would not inquire more about it today.

  
\--

The words were difficult to read through the charred pages and smoked writing. On some ledgers, it looked like the ink had gotten so hot it boiled and bubbled inside the page. Sansa grew bored and tired. The only sounds in the room to keep her awake were the intermittent sliding of a page, the shouts and calls from the men outside drifting in through the window, and every so often, a low sigh from Jon.

The Lords of the North had sent ravens ahead of them, instructing supplies to be sent to Winterfell quickly before the weather grew more hostile. Winterfell would not receive the aid for another fortnight at least - and they needed to know what they had now. She was not told of how the Boltons ran Winterfell while she was locked in her room, so she had asked Jon to help her learn more from the books in what was left of the library.

She knew little about tariffs and coinage, and even less about tithes and food storage. She had not been taught those things. Jon had told her he had those duties when he was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch - but she doubted exactly how much he had learned as she watched him struggle and grow frustrated with the work in front of him.

It was refreshing to get out of the wind and to be alone with him, away from the bustle of noise outside. Jon didn't say much. She liked that. He did not mention the night before, which she appreciated. She didn't know if she would have had any answers for him if he had.

Jon looked so solemn, his nose buried in the ledger on the table. His dark eyes were squinted, and his brow creased so deeply she could barely see his eyes. Sansa propped her own head on her hand and watched him from the other side of the room - a silly distraction from her own pages. He rubbed his eyes and groaned low in his throat again.

“How perfect,” Sansa spoke up, snapping Jon's attention to her. “The two least prepared Starks being the ones here now.” Jon chuckled mirthlessly and threw the ledger he was studying away from him onto the table, defeated.

“I was never taught this growing up,” he admitted.

“Me neither.” Sansa stood and strolled away from her boring ledger to stand over Jon's shoulder. “I can sing a song or sew a gown quite well, though,” she added in jest.

Jon chuckled again, glancing up over his shoulder at her. Sansa’s amusement faded as she looked at the many discarded pages on the table. Most were burnt beyond recognition. She reached down and shuffled a few with her fingers.

“Do you think we can do this?” she asked quietly.

“We have to try.” He grabbed the book he had thrown and pointed at the page. “I can’t figure out what these markings are.” Sansa leaned down to inspect it closer.

“That’s Mother’s handwriting,” she said. She was surprised she could recognize it so easily. Seeing the marks reveal themselves on the page, it felt as though her mother was here. She leaned down closer, her stomach folding over Jon’s arm. “It’s an amount. Seems to be of barrels…” she mused. “Or maybe buckets.”

“Really?” Jon asked, looking closer himself. He eagerly pointed to another spot on the page. “And this?”

Sansa grabbed the book to steady Jon's hand. After a few quiet moments she sighed. “I can't read it.” The marks were defiled with smoke and ash, the ink smeared together into one large puddle.

Jon sighed again and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Sansa took the chance to grab the book and raise it to her face. She resisted the temptation of tracing the words her parents had once written with her fingers. She flipped through several pages. Some were legible, others completely ruined.

“I didn’t know Mother and Father did this themselves,” she mused. “I always thought that Maester Luwin kept the records for them.”

“Apparently your mother didn’t trust many.” Jon reached across the table to grab another loose scroll of parchment.

“No. No, she did not,” Sansa quietly agreed. Jon’s observation stung her a little, but he was right. Catelyn did not trust many people, certainly. Though Sansa found herself agreeing with her late mother - she wouldn't trust anyone with this knowledge, either.

“I wish Maester Luwin was here. He always could explain even the most difficult subjects,” Jon admitted into the quiet room.

“Do you think we can get another Maester?” She asked. He took a moment to think, his expression growing more thoughtful.

“I don’t know. I could send a raven to Sam at the Citadel - but he won’t be trained enough yet. Even if the Citadel sent another Maester, it could take weeks for one to arrive.”

Sansa could feel his hesitation. There was another option they both were avoiding. When they had taken back Winterfell, they had found _three_ Maesters for the Bolton’s inside the keep. Why Roose had three Maesters, Sansa did not know. Had the Maesters sworn allegiance to him? Or had they been poached and forced into servitude as she had?

Jon had locked them away with the other Bolton loyalists in the dungeons at Sansa’s insistence - to await a decision on their judgement and future. Sansa did not trust them - despite their oath to the Citadel. They had sat by and done nothing as Roose and Ramsay tortured and destroyed thousands. They were no friends of hers or the North.

Jon seemed to side with her on this, even if it was a decision underscored by bitterness and paranoia. He didn't press the matter when she had suggested they be kept away from meetings or not allowed in the rookery. She had begged Jon to listen to her, and he had. It was an unlawful decision; unheard of treatment toward the sworn Maesters from the Citadel. If other houses found out what they had done, dishonor would befall them. It was a conversation they needed to have, but for another day.

“Do you have anyone in mind for a council?” Sansa asked, pulling her mind away from the Maesters in their dungeons.

“We’re not King’s Landing. We don't need a council.”

“Surely you don’t intend on doing everything yourself?”

“Not alone, no,” Jon admitted. “But I had a hell of a lot less up at Castle Black. I’m having to figure this out as I go, Sansa. I’m sure the North doesn’t want to do things as King’s Landing does. We’ll make due with what we have.” His tone suggested the matter was not open for discussion.

Sansa pinched the bottom of her lip between her teeth and lowered herself to sit in the chair next to him. She clasped her hands tightly and settled them on her lap, trying to keep them still. She didn't want to upset Jon, but she worried about how he planned to lead. She only knew the system of the Iron Throne. She agreed an independent North should do things differently than those it rebelled from, but she only knew one truth. Man was selfish. Those who value honor lose their heads.

She spoke softly. “Do you trust these men?”

Jon didn't look at her, instead choosing to study his hands. “I don’t need trust. I have faith.” His eyes didn't match his hopeful words. His throat strained with a brokenness she didn't want to hear. “They put their faith in me and I will put my faith in them.”

She stayed silent, stinging from his insinuation. _Did she not have faith?_ How could she? Honor didn’t feed the hungry. Loyalty didn’t raise the dead. Justice was a children's story. She had seen time and time again through her journey that men were selfish, angry and monstrous. She knew that painfully well now. Didn’t Jon?

“Jon…”

“It’s all we have, Sansa.” He finally snapped, unwilling to hear anymore from her.

She could hear Jon's erratic breath in the stillness of the room and her heart mourned. _How perfect…_ They weren't supposed to be here. They were both fighting against one universal truth: bad things happen to good people - whether or not the good had faith. And Jon was trying to be good.

 _Let him be good,_ Sansa thought. _Save his soul from darkness. I am wicked enough for us both._

The air crackled with tension from their disagreement as they both avoided eye contact.

“I think…” Sansa drew out her words, letting them linger for a moment as she collected her thoughts. “I think we should stretch our legs. Come, let’s go count.”

  
\--

Sansa and Jon had counted, two by two, every barrel, bushel and basket that was still unspoiled in the cool cellar. The cellar stretched farther than the eye could see, and the crates stacked so tall it was impossible to get a firm number. There were over two thousand crates alone - Sansa noted to bring reinforcements next time she counted.

As Jon counted out loud, Sansa wrote the numbers down, just as her mother had years ago.

The much needed work continued on without conversation. Winter was here and they needed to work fast. When they had finished in the cellar, Sansa emerged back into the frosty sunlight to direct the collection of hides and furs to storage and Jon disappeared off somewhere near the barracks. She enjoyed the chores, as it kept her mind busy from her scattered thoughts. As long as there was an issue to be addressed, she could forget everything that had happened and focus on the task at hand. And she found she was quite good at it.

Even though Sansa was directing supplies and men, she felt like there was a bubble surrounding her. The Master at Arms would ask a curt question and hurry away as soon as she gave an answer. The Blacksmith asked for more wood and ran away almost immediately. If Sansa had picked up a sword and swung in any direction, she knew it would not have struck a thing, despite the bustling grounds. Why was everyone giving her such a wide berth?

She couldn't help but keep an eye out for any incoming ravens or signs of Brienne returning early. As the day grew darker, Sansa began to worry. More days without Brienne meant more nights alone. She wished she still had Lady. Lady had always been at her feet, protecting her even as a pup. Sansa felt lost and vulnerable without her direwolf, like a hunter would be lost without his bow and arrow.

Everyone left her alone, except for one lone soul. “You’re doing well.” Petyr slid up beside her.

He regarded the carts of leather and straw she was directing and smoothed his gloved hands together. “Catelyn was a great lady of the house, as well. She would be very proud.” Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and she chose to clasp her hands together instead. She didn't like to hear her mother's name on his lips. Funny, she thought, because she had never heard Petyr's name on her mother's lips.

“I should hope to be half the woman my mother was,” she replied finally, her eyes glazing over the busyness around them. “She was wiser than I gave her credit for.”

“Join me?” Petyr asked, inclining his head deeper into the courtyard. She didn't particularly want to, but didn't see the harm. She followed Petyr as he started to walk further from the crowd.

“My apologies for yesterday,” he started. She didn't respond, and he continued despite her silence. “You know I have only wanted the best for you. I worry for you.” He almost sounded kind. Almost.

“I’m perfectly safe, Lord Baelish, I assure you.” _Even more so when you leave…_

“Are you?” He asked. She glanced sideways at him, and saw the small subtle smirk peeking from the corners of his mouth. “Jon is a fair warrior, I’ll admit, but does he know how to rule? How to protect the ones he loves?”

“Jon didn’t leave me with Ramsay.”

Petyr winced at her words as if she had sliced him with a knife. She didn't care. Let him feel the pain she had to endure. She wanted to see him writhe - wanted him to hurt as she had hurt. He was the only other person here who knew exactly what she had been through, and it was from his hand. The rage boiled inside her and she wanted it to burn him, too.

Petyr took a few moments to regroup his thoughts before speaking again. “I only meant, does Jon know what The North needs? He’s a young bastard boy playing at war. He doesn't know the ways of King’s Landing. He has never even met Cersei. You lived with her. You survived her. Surely, you know better than him.”

Their footsteps were quiet and left dark trails through the white snow. Sansa struggled to process Petyr's words. He spoke no lies. She had no response to give - had no rebuttals he could not deflect. Petyr reached to grab her hand, to draw it to him like he had done many times before, but she snatched it away quickly, tucking it into the safety of her own cloak. Her entire body was covered now, and she felt only the soft kisses of freshly fallen snow on her cheeks.

Petyr stopped and turned to face her fully. “We won back Winterfell - not him and his Wildling army. I did it for you. The Knights of the Vale ride for you.” She noticed they were far from the crowd in the courtyard now. They were standing at the steps of the rookery. Though they were alone, Petyr kept his words to a hushed whisper.

“Jon won’t avenge your family's death. Jon won’t bring justice to those accountable. He will never step foot in King’s Landing. Why should he? He’s comfortable here. Bastard King in the North. Not Lord Stark.”

Sansa’s heart wanted to scream back at him. To shove him away. But a small fluttering piece of her mind agreed with him. For which she felt guilty.

“The Vale fights for you, young Robin's cousin. Take them South. Avenge your family. Bring justice for your misery.”

She couldn't speak. She didn't want to go South. Not again. She never wanted to leave Winterfell. Even if the Lords of the North respected Ned's bastard son more than his true born daughter - this was her home. She didn't care for the opinions of men anymore. Oh, where was Brienne when she needed her?

“Give it time, Lord Baelish,” she finally spoke, shaking the shock from her like snow from her shoulders. “You only just gave me my home back. I’m not quite ready to leave it again.”

If Petyr was displeased, he did not show it. “As you wish, my lady.”

Sansa brushed past him, continuing up the stairs of the rookery. Petyr followed and pulled a scroll of parchment from within his cloak. He took a quill from a nearby table and added a few words to the parchment. Sansa's curiosity was piqued. Usually messages were written and sealed before heading to the rookery.

“What are you sending?” she inquired. In the past, Petyr would often hide his scrolls from her, twisting out of view so she could not see what he was writing or reading. Now he handed her the scroll willingly.

“I am requesting supplies be sent here for you,” he answered. She saw his handwriting clearly. Requests for food, for horses, for men and for any young girls to be handmaids for the castle. Sansa first instinct was to deny him. Tell him to keep his favor and to never give her another gift. “A beautiful lady such as yourself deserves the fine accompaniments of any Queen in Westeros.” She scowled. She wasn't a Queen.

“I know you quite enjoy making dresses for yourself. I’m friends with excellent merchants from Dorne. Finest silks in the Seven Kingdoms. I’ll have some sent to you - to keep you busy.”

Winterfell needed food, horses and men. Not her. He was only trying to impress her. Northern women went without fine silk gowns and exotic fruits. She should, too.

“Lord Baelish, I cannot-”

“My precious Sansa…” he interrupted. He moved closer and cupped her face between his hands. “Let me help you.” She searched his eyes as they regarded her softly. She didn't find comfort there. “Let me dote on you. Anything you ask - I will give it freely.”

Sansa was speechless at his words. She wanted to break her face free from the prison of his hands, but found herself frozen. His words spoke true but his tone… his tone sounded like Littlefinger's own way of saying _I love you_. Is this what he would have said to her mother? Showering her with gifts and wealth and society? Buying her good favor?

Littlefinger was always a courteous and chivalrous man. His back was laced tighter than any undergarment she had ever worn. In her youth she dreamed of men who kept their manners, rose and fell when a woman left a room, placed kisses on hands and spoke with such strong solemnity. Ceremony was common place in King's Landing, and it had been a breath of fresh air from her childhood in the North.

Northern men and women were rough - less spectacle and more wild. She had once dreamed of living amongst Princes and Knights and the system of royalty. She loved the pomp and pageantry of it all. She had prayed to escape the dreariness of the North. Petyr embodied everything she wished she could have been when she was a child. He was splendid and refined. But now… now she knew what the display was hiding. People aren't born like that. Courtesy was just a fancy word for lying.

At that moment, a raven swooped into the rookery over their heads, and Sansa gave a small shriek. The raven proudly perched itself on the nearby table.

She could see the wax seal on the scroll from where she stood. The crossed axes of House Dustin. Lady Dustin was too far south to travel to Winterfell herself, so she had sent her vassal in her stead to the meeting after the battle. What message could Lady Dustin have needed to send now?

Sansa was wary; she had never handled a raven before. When she reached forward to untie the scroll, the bird squawked a loud caw and flapped its wings angrily, causing her to flinch again.

 _Silly girl. Get it over with_ , she reprimanded herself. _It's just a bird._

She reached out again and grabbed the bird, despite its shrill calls, and successfully freed the message from its leg.

Petyr laughed. “It wants to eat.” Petyr scooped a handful of seed from a bag and laid it out onto the table. The Raven feverishly started pecking the table, its wings a flurry of shiny black feathers.

“Oh,” was all Sansa could say. Of course it would be that simple, but she had never needed to know that. As the bird fluttered and fussed, Sansa broke the seal on the scroll and read it. _Dark wings dark words, indeed._

“Is everything alright, my lady?” Petyr inquired over her shoulder. She quickly rolled the scroll back up into her hand and considered lying to him. But why? He would find out the news sooner or later.

“Walder Frey is dead,” she answered.

Petyr reached a hand out towards her, and she placed the scroll in his open palm. Everything in her body screamed. She should give the scroll to Jon first. What right did Petyr have to read the King's mail before him? But a small part of her deep down wanted to know what Petyr would say. She wanted to hear his raw opinion.

Petyr read the letter silently, his expression frozen. He ticked his tongue absent mindedly - as he usually did when he was thinking. When he was done he handed the parchment back to her.

“Not just Walder Frey. The entire Frey house,” he mused.

“There's no mention of who has done this.” An entire house - wiped out. Just like that. The idea sent a shiver through Sansa’s bones. As much as she despised House Frey for what they did to her family, the very thought of an entire house being snuffed out in one night terrified her. What kind of demon could accomplish that and not be caught?

“Could it have been Cersei?” she asked.

Petyr was oddly silent. His face was still but his eyes were hard as he thought about the possibility. “No…” he drawled, his voice a low growl. “The Freys are no enemies of hers.”

“Has she finally lost her mind?” Petyr didn't react, instead he calmly went to grab a raven from the Eyrie cage.

“I wouldn't worry about it, dear child,” he said. “The Freys were no friends of yours, either. They have met their fate. This was an act of the gods.”

Sansa was confused by his sudden change of heart, and she suddenly remembered where she was. Who she was speaking to. If Petyr said not to worry, she knew she should. If the Freys, with all of their men and their strong walls could be taken out, so could Winterfell.

“I must tell Jon.” She hiked up her skirts into her hands and turned to leave without a farewell.

“Isn't this what you wanted, Sansa?” Petyr called behind her. She stopped at his call, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling. She glanced back towards him, afraid of what he meant. He was holding onto the raven so tight the poor bird was frozen in fear. “I seem to recall another house meeting the same fate.”

\--

The days were growing shorter as Winter loomed harder, and Sansa had a fleeting thought of candles. How many candles would Winterfell need to light their way through another Long Night? She would need many herself. She lit dozens in her chambers tonight alone. Lighting candles was easier than a fireplace.

She heard a lone wolf howling in the distance from her window. It echoed through the darkness, a sad yet beautiful sound, calling to the full moon in the sky. She could empathize with that call.

There was a plate of untouched food on the table; a bowl of cold soup and a loaf of stale bread. Food had no taste anymore. Her stomach no longer growled in hunger. In King's Landing the pain of an empty stomach had comforted her. While her family was being hurt with swords and knives, she felt pain by rejecting the Lannister’s hospitality. The pain had reminded her she was still alive, had felt like an act of solidarity to her family’s suffering. Now the pain was gone.  
  
Was she completely broken? Was she no less a demon than whatever had killed Walder Frey? Had her humanity vanished with her first bloodshed, just as her childhood had vanished with her first moon blood?

As she prepared for bed with a heavy feeling in her chest, she heard footsteps in the corridor. Her mind flashed to how Ramsay's boots would sound on these floors before he came to her room. She could hear him coming long before he ever reached the door. Each footstep was a grain of sand in a hourglass, filling her with dread.

She moved to check that the lock on her door was in place. She was afraid to speak – to give her position away. Deep down she knew she was being irrational. Ramsay was gone. Those could never be his boots.

The footsteps stopped outside her door, and there was a familiar huff of a wolf sniffing under the door.

“Jon?” she called out softly. Her voice quivered against her wishes, shaking like a small child’s.

“Aye. It’s me.” His response was muffled by the heavy door.

Relief flooded her. She had not expected him for the second night. But he was here… without her having to ask. She opened the door.

He looked tired - exhausted from the day. Probably worsened by a sleepless night. She remembered opening her door that morning and not finding him. Had he even stayed the whole night? It had not made her feel any safer in the morning. The dreams still woke her. The fear still plagued her. Nothing had happened in the waking realm and yet she was still afraid.

  
“You look tired,” she said.

“I'm fine.” He glanced around the room, his gaze stopping on the lone chair briefly. “It’s cold in here,” he mused before he noticed the dead fireplace. “You haven’t lit the fire?”

“I’m not very good at it…”

“You need to learn,” Jon scolded her as he removed his leather gloves finger by finger. “What _did_ they teach you growing up?” He bent over the pit and begun working on igniting it.

“Father taught Arya,” she said. “I always smashed my fingers…”

Jon laughed. “Of course you did.” Within seconds flames started licking the raw wood, and Jon blew on the flames as they grew. Sansa let out a small playful cheer.

“My hero,” she teased. Jon threw his gloves onto the large table and pulled the lone chair over to it, placing the head of the chair firmly backwards against the ledge.

Sansa relaxed as the heat of the fire began to warm the room, removing her light cloak to place it on her bed. She began to untangle her hair from its braid as she went to sit next to Jon. She asked about his training, how the young fighters were improving. Jon seemed hopeful yet hesitant. It wasn’t the fighters that needed improvement as much as the weapons.

Mentally Sansa took note to ask Littlefinger if he knew any merchants that had dragonglass. If Littlefinger wanted to dote on her, let it be with weapons and supplies, not silk.

She didn't want to tell Jon about the conversation she had had with Littlefinger. Not after how he reacted last night. Jon was better off not knowing. She needed to figure out what Littlefinger was up to first. She knew him better than anyone else in the keep, and she worried about him getting closer to any others. Littlefinger had a way of spinning lies to make them look like gold.

At least, she hoped that was her reasoning.

“What do you think of the Freys?" she asked, once the conversation had died from the day's events. "Do you think we should be worried?"

Jon sighed, picking up the stale bread on the table and turning it in his hands. "Maybe."

"People are saying it's a ghost or a demon."

"Well, I don't know of any ghosts or demons that use poison."

"Can you imagine?” she whispered. “An entire family killed by drinking the same wine? How horrible."

"I don't want to." Jon’s face grew darker and he tossed the stale bread back down. His words bit the air and she felt guilty for mentioning it.

You can't fight poison. You can't swing a sword at poison. Poison was a silent stranger in the night, and came when you least expected it. Made friends suspicious of each other and made even the greatest of Kings paranoid. It was the perfect weapon.

The thought of a silent spirit laying waste to the Lords of Westeros frightened Sansa to her core. She was barely struggling to rebuild her home as it was, with threats of weather and Night Kings and Mad Queens. This only added to her list of things to worry about. Was she strong enough to see the hidden dagger pressed against their back?

"We need to find Bran and Arya. We need to bring them home,” she stressed.

Jon glanced at her, his brow furrowed together. The wind howled stronger in response outside. His silence was odd, and Sansa heard his unspoken words clearly enough.

"You don't think they're alive.” Her breathless words lacked a question. He had given up on their family.

"Bran went North of the Wall,” Jon began. "Even the best Rangers do not make it back South of the Wall. Brienne saw Arya over a year ago. If she was still alive, she would have come home by now."

  
“That doesn't mean they're dead,” she snapped back.

"I hope they’re not," he nearly yelled. “But we can’t go looking for them. Not now. A betting man would not take those odds.”

Sansa shrank back in her chair slightly at his harsh tone. She knew Jon would never harm her, but her body always betrayed her. She didn't like yelling, she didn't like seeing men angry anymore. Men do horrible things when they're angry. Unpredictable things.

She swallowed back her fright and breathed low. “People said the same of me.”

"I'm not trying to be cruel, Sansa, just honest."

He sounded broken. This was the man who charged into battle to save his half-brother without a second thought, and had to watch him die because of it. She knew now that if Jon expressed any hope, he was either lying or afraid. It was their song; death, tragedy and pain. She couldn’t give up on her family or Winterfell that easily. The Starks are brave. The Starks endure.

“You can doubt and guess all you like but I choose to hope they are still alive.” Sansa leaned over to grasp his hand with her own. "I survived. Me. The gentle Lady of Winterfell. Arya is twice as headstrong than me. You know that. I choose to believe she’s out there somewhere.”

Jon was silent for a moment as he took in her words. Then he gently slipped his hand out of hers, sighed and leaned back in his chair, conceding. “All right,” he agreed. “But until we are all reunited again, we only have each other. Let's not argue anymore.”

Sansa nodded quickly and changed the subject. She enjoyed these late night talks between them. He was kind to her and his jokes distracted her just enough that her mind was eased. Last night he had made her feel brave enough to sleep, and tonight he made her feel involved. The day's work was tiring enough without adding invisible demons and worries to them.

As the fire dulled and the night grew quiet, Sansa struggled to keep her eyes open and Jon began to cut his sentences with large, open-mouthed yawns. It was late, and Sansa realized she was still avoiding sleep by distracting herself with conversation.

“You should sleep,” she said after another eye-watering yawn.

“And you.” Jon stood, stretching his arms high above his head. “Though, a bed would be nice,” he chuckled.

This was unfair, she realized. Jon was not her guard dog. He was a King and he deserved to sleep in his own bed, on his own terms. Her heart suddenly felt cold. "You don't have to, you know?” she muttered weakly.

Jon cocked his head onto his shoulder and shrugged. "Do you want me to?"

She couldn't find an answer. She didn't know.

He smiled sweetly. "I want to," he answered his own question, walking over to the fire and throwing another log on it. "I promised a rather tall lady I would."

"At least take my bed,” she said. “I will toss and turn all night anyway.”

“Nonsense,” he shot her down. “I’ve slept on worse.”

She was sure he had. A bastard boy all his life turned crow up at the dark and decrepit Castle Black. She had spent enough time there to see how the new recruits were treated. But that was not his life anymore. Despite his insistence, Sansa grabbed a large pile of furs from her own bed and dropped them onto the floor, a makeshift mattress for him.

Ghost, who had been lying asleep through most of their talk, now raised his head at the noise. Jon whistled for the wolf to come over as he removed some of his heavy leathers. Ghost slowly meandered over and dropped at what would be the head of Jon’s bed.

Sansa watched as Ghost became a pillow for Jon to rest his head on, the direwolf’s massive size swallowing him. She remembered when that wolf was only a pup - the runt of the litter. It was amazing to see him fully grown and the relationship that connected the two. She wondered how big Lady would be if she were still alive. Wondered if she would need Brienne or Jon if Lady were still with her.

As Sansa lay down to sleep, she found the silence deafening, and her mind continued to buzz. She thought about the cold, about Jon laying just a reach away from her, and she thought about Petyr’s words.

“Do you think I'm a monster?” she asked into the dark air. She hoped Jon was already asleep - that her words would go unheard but off her chest nonetheless.

“What?” she heard back. She blinked back the tears that were threatening to fall. She didn't want Jon to see. She didn't want pity, she wanted honesty. “Sansa...” Jon whispered, as he realized what she meant. “Ramsay was a monster. Not you.”

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to pass the blame. But Jon didn't know the satisfaction she had felt when she heard Ramsay's pleas; the joy she received from watching the last murderous Bolton leave this earth. It could have been quicker. She could have had Jon cut his head off or she could have hanged him in the courtyard for all the traitors to see.

But that had not been what she wanted. She wanted for him to face death as he had inflicted it on so many others. As the one who passed the sentence, it was she who needed to watch the punishment. It was a poetic, wicked form of justice. _And she liked it_. She never thought she could like it.

Maybe Ramsay had indeed taken every last inch of her.

“Say it again,” she said quietly, as hot tears fell silently down her cheeks in the darkness. She tried desperately to keep the quiver out of her voice.

Jon was silent for a long moment, and she heard movement on the floor as time dragged on. “ _You’re not a monster_ ,” he stressed.

In that moment, she did not believe him. But it was nice to hear him say it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoy. Once again my amazing betas eased my worried mind this week. I don’t know what I’d do without them.


	4. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa have been spending more time together, yet Jon still finds himself surprised.

# Chapter Four: Ghosts

  
[[ _I’ll Be Good - Jaymes Young]_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=POqEVwROEQs)

  
_My past has tasted bitter_  
_For years now_  
_So I wield an iron fist_  
_Grace is just weakness_  
_Or so I've been told_  
_I've been cold, I've been merciless_  
_But the blood on my hands scares me to death_

  
_Maybe I'm waking up today_

 

 

“Good,” Jon called, reaching his hand out to help the fallen boy stand. “But remember to keep your footing at all times.” The young boy mutely nodded and prepared his stance again.

The boy’s loose movements reminded Jon of Bran, who last he could remember was also a small bundle of uncoordinated limbs. Jon couldn’t help but wonder about his little brother and what had become of him. Would Jon have been chosen King if young Bran were still in Winterfell? Would he have grown to become a strong fighter like Robb? Jon had to push away the thought - no good would come from idle dreams like those.

Kings are not known to train the subjects, but Jon enjoyed it. He enjoyed getting out in the air and removing his regal furs. This was what he knew best. He was not taught about ruling as a child. He had never sought leadership. While growing up here at Winterfell, he always had a weapon in his hand. He was good at teaching less experienced men than he. He saw the rapists and thieves at Castle Black become strong brothers under his aid. He knew he was good at this.

There was something quieting about the clash of steel. It helped distract his mind, which was always buzzing these days. Lords were demanding action, requesting orders, and asking impossible questions. The thought of dragonglass and Valyrian steel never strayed far from his mind. He had requested all able bodied men to start training harder and faster than before. He knew the North would need all the help it could get this winter. When he saw the Master at Arms teaching green boys in the courtyard, he gladly joined. The swords were not Valyrian steel, instead wooden weapons against straw men, but it was better than nothing. That was the best he could ask for for now.

Yet, even while he was training the young boys to become better fighters he found he still had trouble focusing. He spotted her out of the corner of his eye during a turn - her copper hair a candle through the snow. It must be because they were spending so much time together, Jon thought. That's why he was so aware of where she was. Sansa seemed to float along the white ground at the other end of the courtyard, directing a cart full of furs towards the armory or a barrel of salted meats to storage.

He took a hard hit to the back of his knee from the young lad while his eyes drifted and found himself collapsing to his knees. The boy immediately started pleading for forgiveness, petrified at the idea of striking a King. Jon immediately stood to show the boy he was fine. It was a wood sword - nothing compared to what he had been faced with before.

“The lad must be improving to get a hit on His Grace,” the Master at Arms cut in, laughing jovially and clapped Jon hard on the back. Jon chuckled, slightly embarrassed, and conceded. His guard was down. How else could a green boy land a blow? Jon excused himself after reassuring the boy he was unharmed to head back into the tower. Reluctantly he accepted his thoughts were too loud to be of any help training.

As he crossed the bridge to the Great Keep he stalled, catching a glimpse of Sansa in the courtyard again. Now that he was able to watch out of sight, he noticed the little intricacies of her movements. He had begun to notice them more and more in the passing days.

She liked to thumb through stacks of leathers and furs like pages of a book. She kept glancing to the sky as if searching for something. She worried her hands together when she was left alone for longer than a few moments. She would lean against the stone wall when she thought no one was looking. Her cool demeanor only broke when she knelt to the floor to greet a young child, sweeping her hair over her left shoulder as she did so.

Her hair was so long now. It kissed the ground when she bent over. Lady Catelyn had always kept Sansa's hair perfectly braided and away from her face. Arya’s hair would often meet the blade after inevitably getting into a tangle of sap and tree limbs, but Sansa never seemed to have that issue. Young maidens kept their hair fresh and tied to show off their youth and beauty. Long, loose hair was for married women. Sansa’s was a mix of both; she had the length of a wife, but the beautifully twisted locks of a maid.

He found he couldn't tear his eyes away. She was confident out in the daylight. Command suited her. Watching her now, no one would have considered her insecurities and doubts. There was no trace of the vulnerable girl he saw when they were alone. That is, until any man approached her. She would tuck her hands deep into her cloak and keep the conversations as curt as possible. The longest he saw her speak was to the little girl she knelt for.

He didn’t know if anyone else could tell...or was it only him? She always had an answer for those who approached her, and if she didn't, she would step away to ask someone more knowledgeable for advice. But her shoulders were tight and she hurried to find the answers as quickly as she could.

He tried remembering back to when they were children. Had she been so poised then? _Yes_ , he decided, she had. She had always carried an air of grace about her. Though, in his tormented ways he had never searched for the girl underneath before. He had only seen what he had wanted to see: a spoiled true born daughter who looked down on him for simply existing.

Even if that was who she was then, he could not see it in her now. Her actions continued to shock him. Never in his dreams would he have expected her to accept him as ruler of Winterfell and King in the North. He had changed in his years - he had become older and wiser and less disillusioned. It seemed she had, as well.

Just as he was about to turn and leave, feeling overwhelmingly that he was prying, he noticed a dark cloud of a black cape in the courtyard. _Littlefinger_. Sansa greeted him, though she kept her hands hidden then too. She turned to leave and Petyr followed close behind her.

Jon’s entire body clenched. He felt the sudden urge to go get her, to ask her to help him recount the stores, to take her away where it was just the two of them. He didn't want Littlefinger to get any chance to fill Sansa's mind with more worries. He didn’t like the idea of them spending any time alone together.

A gruff grunt from below snapped him out of his thoughts. Tormund stood underneath the bridge, his neck craned to grab Jon’s attention and his arms outstretched by his sides. His scowl was particularly pointed today.

_What now?_ Jon weakly motioned for Tormund to join him on the bridge. As Tormund quickly moved to climb the stairs, Jon looked back to try to find Sansa in the courtyard again. She and Petyr were gone. The urge to find her and remove her from Petyr’s company washed through him again, but the rough wildling stomped loudly up the stairs.

“This is it?” Tormund said instantly as he reached the top, without any attempt at a formal greeting. Silently Jon just stared, unsure of Tormund’s outburst. “Are we to just wait here with our cocks in our hands?” Tormund growled.

“We’re not simply standing around,” Jon sighed, and turned to finally enter the Keep. Tormund followed him, hot on his footsteps. “We’re preparing.”

“Aye - your people are preparing. Like newborn babes learning to walk,” Tormund spat. “While the free folk are getting restless.”

Jon froze in his steps. _Restless free folk?_ He suddenly was not sure of what a truly restless free folk acted like - of what restless free folk were willing to do. Tormund was not a complicated man - he was most likely itching for a good fight.

What more could he do? He didn’t like sitting and waiting for an attack on Winterfell either. He had barely convinced the Lords that the Others were a real threat, and even less convinced them to tolerate the sudden company of Wildlings. How would they react if he suddenly let free folk loose on the North? He feared no Stark blood could save him then.

“What more would you have me do?”

Tormund hesitated, exhaling loudly and nervously scratching his nose at Jon’s tone. “The free folk came south to survive - fight that damned Night King - or spread out. They don't kneel. They don't serve.”

“The only way we will survive the Night King is to stick together,” Jon stressed. “I know it’s not what the free folk are used to - but it's our only hope.”

“The ones who stay, stay for you. That is true. But free folk living amongst kneelers? Tha’s just against nature.”

Jon perked his chin up, catching Tormund’s eye knowingly. “They listen to you.”

“Aye,” Tormund said curtly, nodding his head once but piercing Jon with a wild stare from his blue eyes. “And I’m getting bored.”

Jon sighed. No amount of harsh words would make Jon search out the Night King now. They were not strong enough. _He_ was not strong enough.

“The free folk can settle outside Winterfell - in Winter Town. In the Wolfswood. I’m not making them stay inside Winterfell’s walls.”

“And what good would that do? We’re not getting anything.”

Jon scoffed lightly under his breath. _Of course._ Everyone always wanted something. He began tugging off his gloves finger by finger to throw them onto a table nearby. “I’m afraid I don't have much to offer right now.”

Jon was doing all he knew how to do, and frankly, he couldn’t say it wasn’t all for naught in the end. He was merely a bastard King, with a tiny speck of a chance against the threat beyond the Wall. With winter’s full force looming on the horizon, sometimes it was impossible for him to see a light behind it. Each day that passed was a struggle between him breaking down and ordering everyone to head south or ignoring his fears and staying calm for the sake of everyone left in the North.

Today seemed to be one of those days. Jon took in a calming breath, and gripped his hands into fists to quiet their shaking.

Tormund narrowed his eyes, scanning Jon from foot to crown quickly. He was holding something back. Tormund wasn’t known for holding his tongue. His patience running thin, Jon threw his hands out and asked curtly, “What?”

Tormund’s lips pursed tight for a moment before he spat out, “Do you want to be here, Snow?”

Jon wished he could say he wasn’t shocked by the question, but he was. Was his brokenness that obvious? Could everyone see? He wanted to answer a resounding “yes” but the word caught in his throat. For some reason, that answer felt insincere.

Of course he wanted to be in Winterfell. It would be an insult to everything he once believed he wanted to throw away his responsibilities and to deny being crowned. He had wanted a home. He had wanted to be accepted - but he had never wanted it like this. He had never wanted it because of the downfall of his brothers.

“I’ll keep your concerns under advisement,” Jon said, turning his back to Tormund to continue to disrobe from his battlegear. “If you don’t mind, I would like to be alone.”

 

\--

He didn’t know why he didn’t dream anymore.

He dreamed so much before his death. His nights had so often been plagued by wild vibrant dreams about wolves and battles and even his family. His dreams were always so life-like and intrusive that when they ceased their absence was almost painful. He wasn't even sure he was human anymore. He felt things more intensely it seemed, but there was an obvious void in his body. Something was missing.

He walked through the godswoods, far to the back corner.

Not many ventured this far back. He used to run here when he was a child when he would play games with Robb - or when he needed a solitary place to cry. It was beautiful in the summer. The moss was green and lush and flowers bloomed under the shade of the great weirwood. Life flourished then.

At the edge of the godswoods stood ancient archways; broken columns left half standing in the middle of the wood, memories of a veranda long gone. They were ruins now, covered in a thin sheeting of pure white snow and frost.

He thought he would never see this place again. First when he took the black and again when cold steel plunged into his heart. He had not realized how much he missed it until he thought it was gone.

He placed a hand against one of the broken pillars and could feel the cold seep into his leather glove. Much of Winterfell was left broken and ancient - as if to remind the Starks of where they came from, and of who built this place. _This place could never be mine_ , he found himself thinking. Winterfell was older and more majestic than he ever could be. He was King in the North, yes, but he was still a bastard. These woods could never be claimed - except, perhaps, by the cold kiss of winter.

Beyond the cracked and crumbling gateway he could see the high towers of the glass gardens. The glass was bright and foggy from the heat inside. The lightly falling snow couldn't last on its warm rooftop, melting and sliding off instead onto the frozen ground below.

He had never seen the glass gardens with snowfall outside. Even during the light summer snows he had never thought to run to the gardens. He wondered if it still sheltered the plants inside from the harsh winter winds.

The door was massive - sheeting of pure glass encased in iron work. The hinges were frozen stiff, yet still opened for him with little force. Inside the air was warm and surprisingly moist. He saw that the plants grew as they had in summer. The frost winds couldn't touch him here. The ground was still warm and the heat rose from the soil instead of from the dull sun above.

Crops of cabbage, carrots, onions and tomatoes; their leaves were still and reaching high for the light. The gardens were more pitiful than he remembered as a child. Perhaps the plants were making root again after the onslaughts through the years. A few panes of glass were shattered and open near the ground, and other panes on top had seemingly been replaced with cruder craftsmanship. He found himself slightly relieved at the amount of vegetables and flowers that could still bloom. Winterfell could not grow wheat, but at least the glass gardens had survived the Boltons.

Deep beyond the dwindling greenery and tangled bushes, he saw a flash of autumn red. He knew instantly what it was. She stood still and tall, a vision amongst the trees. He had not expected to find her here. Sansa turned to face him as he made a dreadful noise digging through the brush, her blue eyes wide and watchful as he approached.

“Apologizes,”  he announced. “Am I intruding?”

“No,” she answered softly. “I’m only trying to get warm.”

He noticed her hands were uncovered from the leather gloves she usually wore. Her fingers were pink and outstretched, flexing at her sides. He decided to do the same, and removed his own gloves in the heat. Sansa closed her eyes and raised her chin, taking a deep inhale through her nose. Her pale skin glowed, drinking in the sun.

She had shot up height wise since the day they both left Winterfell. She had even grown taller than him. She was almost unrecognizable from the girl from his childhood when she arrived at Castle Black. Perhaps she was not unlike a tree and needed more sun to grow.

“I’m sure it doesn’t compare to the southern winds of King’s Landing,” Jon said, taking the chance to watch her. “Perhaps you need to get accustomed to northern weather again.”

She didn’t open her eyes, and her voice was a sweet sigh. “Nothing compares to King’s Landing.”

She was stunning. More beautiful than her lady mother had ever been. A beauty worthy of valiant knights and a thousand favors. Yet she was here, just as sad and broken as he. If Ned were alive he would be batting off suitors with a stick. Jon tried to push away the thought. He had enough ghosts to deal with lately.

“Wish I had seen it myself,” he replied politely.

“You wouldn’t believe the things the women do in King’s Landing. The clothes, the hair, the bathing - seven hells, the bathing!” She finally opened her eyes to glance at Jon and she laughed. “The amount of perfume alone could make you dizzy. Walking into a room was an attack every one of your senses.” Just as Jon began to suspect she was nostalgic for the luxurious life of King’s Landing, Sansa’s voice pitched down into a melancholy whisper, adding thoughtfully, “Perhaps it was deliberate.”

Her voice was quiet, but he could hear every syllable and every breath. There was no need to speak loudly here without the winds, the birds, and the clanging of constant work. It was still and quiet. For a moment he felt guilty for interrupting her peace. He couldn't respond, choosing instead to let her fill the silence.

“What do you think of perfume, Jon?” she asked after a pregnant pause.

Her question caught him off guard, and he didn’t know his answer until it left him. “I think it’s nice.”

There was a long moment as Sansa slowly blinked her eyes, and they focused off in the distance, not on him. There was a long moment before she answered, matter of factly, “You would.”

He could imagine another red headed girl accusing him of the same thing. If Ygritte believed him to be a fancy lord, she would have marveled at Sansa. “Do you miss it?”

“Gods, no,” she scoffed. “I don’t wish to be among those people ever again. Bathe a pig in perfume and it’s still just a pig, Jon.” Her voice grew sad again. “You wouldn’t have liked it either…” Her eyes fell down to her hands. “It’s not like the stories.”

She shuffled away, turning towards a nearby rose bush. A crow landed on the glass ceiling above them, its talons tapping as it hopped from one pane to another.

“I'm sorry for when we were younger,” she suddenly said. “I'm sorry for how I treated you.” Jon had the strange feeling that he had upset her. She cupped a small blooming winter rose in her delicate fingers as she spoke. She held herself so gently, as if she herself were a fragile rose. She never seemed to stand completely relaxed these days. “It must have truly been awful...to feel like an outsider.”

It had been, Jon thought, but it was nice to hear her say it. All his life he had felt like he was not welcome - that he was unwanted. As Sansa put it so expertly - ‘an outsider’. How was she so aware of the right word? She had never been an outsider her whole life - her very birth putting her in the highest places of Westeros. Jon watched her intently as she seemed to speak from a place deep within her.

“I shouldn’t have listened. I should have looked past the titles and treated you better. I should have appreciated what I had.”

He had already forgiven her. Why was she apologizing again? “It's in the past,” he assured her.

“Fighting over blood and titles is such a silly thing in the face of real loss.”

“It doesn't matter now.”

“No,” she cooed. “I suppose it doesn't.”

Her face grew dark and her eyes cast down to study her hands. The moments pulled apart like seasons as her face changed from spring to winter. Suddenly she drew her cape tighter around herself and moved away from the rosebush, preparing to leave.

“You’re leaving?”

“There is still much to be done,” she answered with a small smile. She glanced around the gardens as she tugged her gloves back on. “And warmth has suddenly lost its appeal.”

He didn't move as he watched her leave. Had he said something to upset her? She seemed so breakable these days - haunted by something. He wished he could grab her up in his arms and tell her it didn't matter anymore. To assure her that he forgave her and that she had done more than he could have ever imagined to right her wrongs...but she was fragile and he did not know what she needed. He was broken, too - and two broken pieces don't always fit together. She needed better than him.

As she left him alone, he suddenly felt colder despite the garden. As if she had taken the very sun with her and left him in a tomb.

\--  


He awoke to a scream.

It was sharp and quick. He didn’t know if he was even completely awake as he jolted upright and reached for his sword in the same movement. Ghost rose and growled low in his throat, his red eyes moving in the dark to search the corners of the room. _Are there intruders?_ Half asleep, Jon perched onto his knees with his sword in hand. _Where are they?_

He heard the sobs then. Quiet and muffled in the darkness. Slowly he realized Sansa was...sobbing?

“Sansa?” he choked out, moving closer to the bed. He looked at her arms, then around the bed… There was nothing. Physically she was fine. Her breathing was fast and loud, shuttering cries rolling one after the other. “Sansa.” He reached out to grab her and she cried out again, yanking her arm from his grasp.

Ghost was pacing the edges of the room, his hackles raised and his lips curled back in a menacing snarl. Jon searched around the room through the darkness. There was no one. The door was still shut, the room still dark. Sansa shook with sobs, wrapping her arms around herself.

It was as if he weren’t even there - as if he were a ghost. “Sansa,” Jon whispered again.

Her loose hair fell around her face like a halo of fire as her head jerked at his voice. Her cheeks were wet and flushed and her tormented eyes took an agonizing moment to focus on him.

“Jon?” she asked, her brow twisting in confusion. He nodded quickly to answer her. “Oh gods…” She moaned, lowering to cover her face. He saw more tears streak down her cheeks as she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands.

He had seen a few men of the Night's Watch have these terrors at night. They would thrash and shout in their sleep. Even if they woke, they often would go on long walks afterwards as if they were afraid of falling back to sleep.

If he had missed dreaming, Sansa made him glad they didn't plague him anymore.

Ghost calmed his growls and stepped close to the bed. Sansa immediately threw her arms around his neck and gladly buried her face into his warm fur. Jon felt helpless as she cried into Ghosts fur in the dark room. Unsure of what to do, he silently went to light some candles and check the lock on the door. Once there was scarce light to see by, he stood and watched Sansa take so much comfort from Ghost. Oh, how he wished he could trade places with his direwolf.

The dreams were worse than Brienne had said. What had that monster done to sweet Sansa? Clearly Ramsay deserved a fate much worse than death. Jon wanted to bring him back from death just so he could kill him again – over and over and over and over.

“Are you alright?” he finally spoke. Sansa swallowed hard, but raised from hugging the direwolf to answer.

“It felt so real…” she sighed. She pressed her naked palm hard against her chest, as if trying to still her pounding heart from the outside. Her breathing stayed heavy and shaky, and her voice seemed in the edge of breaking. She glanced up, her mournful eyes somehow more beautiful than usual. “I'm never going to be free of him, am I?” she asked. Then, more tears burst from her eyes.

Jon couldn’t hold back anymore. He rushed forward to sweep her into his arms. She didn’t hesitate and leaned her face against his chest as her body shook in terror and tears. He cautiously wrapped his arms around her thin frame and placed a kiss in her hair. His own icy heart broke at her cries. He felt powerless in this moment. He didn't know the answer to her question. He wasn't free of his own demons yet.

Jon knew he could strike down their enemies. He could protect the walls of Winterfell and threaten anyone who dare seek to take Sansa again. Though he knew he could not protect her from her biggest threat – her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are off to a slow start, I know. It’s a 50ft fuse. Hopefully things perk up in the next few chapters. I’m excited to get to them, but I gotta get the mundane, daily life in first. Thanks for sticking around and being patient! Xoxo and extra thanks to my savior beta this chapter!!!


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